When I worked for the Post Office, seniority counted. If you were young, your holidays were in May. You had to serve about 20 years before you were allowed a summer holiday in August, so you took the kids out of school — a crime now. From 1975 on, we’d spend a week somewhere like Camelford or Polzeath. By the time David Cameron discovered that part of Cornwall, we’d moved on.
I didn’t fly till I was 31, and that was only to resolve a union dispute in Dundee. I did get to go abroad when I was 12, thanks to the Children’s Country Holidays Fund, now known as CCHF All About Kids (of which I am a patron). My sister was sent on a trip a couple of years before me. She went to Guildford, I got Denmark. The ferry crossing was horrendous, with mass seasickness. We stayed in an agricultural college just outside Esbjerg, which might not sound exotic, but was incredible to me, like another planet.
The week involved trips to the Lurpak butter factory, which smelt absolutely appalling, and the Lego factory, where we were all given a small packet of Lego. On the boat back, I swapped mine for 20 Senior Service cigarettes with a sailor.
My first trip to America was generously funded by the US taxpayer as part of the International Visitor Program. You had to spend the first week in Washington, learning about American government, but after that you were free to organise your own itinerary. So, in July 1991, I spent three weeks journeying to New York, Columbus, Denver, San Francisco and Las Vegas, where I blew all of $10 in a casino.
Each state was like a different country. I expected everyone to be driving huge cars, but those had all gone after the oil crisis, and they all drove really slowly. My perceptions, based on 1970s TV movies, hadn’t kept up with reality.
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In Orlando, I had an astonishing experience at the Epcot Center. Its World Showcase has themed halls dedicated to various countries — the UK’s inevitably had a red telephone box and a pub. The American exhibit had a traditional barbershop quartet singing a cappella renditions of folk classics. It was the eve of Operation Desert Storm and everyone was tense about having American troops on the ground again. People stopped to listen to these powerful old songs. By the time they began singing John Brown’s Body, tears were flowing. I felt like an intruder, but it was hugely moving. I realised how deep patriotism runs in America.
Ministerial trips could be gruelling. When I was home secretary, I went to visit Camp Bastion, in Afghanistan, at the height of the insurgency. I was nervously helicoptered in late at night, with all lights extinguished, and we were heavily guarded during my stay. The facilities at the fort were pretty basic, but it was fascinating and inspiring talking to the soldiers.
Sometimes you were pleasantly surprised. When I was health minister, I was invited to Rio de Janeiro. We flew in at 10pm and dropped our bags at our hotel on Copacabana beach before being whisked off to the carnival at midnight, to take our seats in a VIP box.
Alan Johnson, 67, was born in London, and was a postman before coming general secretary of the Union of Communication Workers. He was Labour MP for Hull West and Hessle between 1997 and 2017, and held several cabinet positions. He married the businesswoman Carolyn Burgess in 2015. He has children from two previous marriages. The third volume of his memoirs, The Long and Winding Road, is out now in paperback (Corgi).